Winterhold
by Most High
Summary: A hidden city of gladiatorial nature is threatened by none other than Gromph Baenre himself. Chapter 2 on the way please R


Disclaimer: All mentioned characters and places are property of Forgotten realms, not me.  
  
Far up in the Spine of the World Mountains, there lies a place that's existence is known only to those that live there, it is one of the best- kept secrets in Faerun. The place is called Winterhold. This place is a city, stretching to cover an entire 180 kilometres in diameter, on a perfectly circular plateau, all magically hidden by the city's mythal. In this city, the games rule. Members of a peculiar species, the Zaeroth, Gather "heroes," or gladiators against their will, force them to fight. They then revive the losers and send them both back with false memories to replace the wiped ones, no harm right? Wrong.  
  
This particular match was different. They had pitted one Archmage against another, Gromph Baenre, Archmage of Menzoberranzan, was up against the likes of a Shadovar prince, one Retcanuth Tanthul, a shadovar who had managed to escape the fall of the Netheril by placing himself in suspended animation. Gromph had studied about the shadovar before, and had a plan. Gromph started casting a spell immediately upon the start of the match, but not one somebody would expect, his was a spell of magical detection, that imbued his eyes to see magic like he saw heat with his infravision. As he had suspected, there was a Zaeroth mage sustaining an antimagic field around the stadium so no one could teleport away and would have to fight. Gromph had other ideas. Retcanuth had already cast a spell; drawing a strand of shadowsilk from his pocket he recited an incantation to send an orb of shadow flying across the arena at Gromph. The Archmage took only a fraction of a second to muster up enough magical energy to send a spray of golden bolts, flying not at the other mage, but at the shadow ball itself. The result war the on thing the Zaeroth had not predicted, mixing of magics. It was much like an explosion, but more. warped. Random sections of wall started disappearing, many zaeroth dying, parts of their bodies randomly disintegrating. Gromph had seen this coming and the instant the startled zaeroth mage faltered, he was gone.  
  
Gromph rematerialized on a slope overlooking the towering stone pillars and great domes that made up the city of Winterhold, congratulating himself on the grand escape and squinting for the great deal of brightness, although it was night. He noticed several specs floating up towards him from the crumbling battle dome, each riding an odd creature that looked like a crossbreed of a bat and a shark. The drow realized the meant to catch him and readied himself, twisting and tapping various rings and amulets to conjure magical protections. The Archmage of Menzoberranzan waved his arms in magical passes, moving his fingers into mystic shapes and spoke a short incantation, causing a cloud of toxic gas to appear in front of his pursuers, taking down two of the six creatures. The zaeroth responded by twisting there tentacle-like arms into seemingly impossible shapes and speaking words of power, sending a great hail of fire and lightning, most of which flashed up against his spell guards and disappearing. Gromph decided to finish them off with his favourite spell combination. He first recited an oh-so-familiar incantation and flinging his hand toward his enemies a number of blades (six for each target of the spell) appeared and spun towards them, immediately eviscerating one and impacting spell guards of the others. Now, if one were to stop one of those blades from spinning and inspect it, they would find them engraved with many runes, wherever a blade hit a spell guard (Divine, Arcane, or Shadow) it would cut a hole through it, slowly disappearing, leaving a tear in the spell shield. Gromph prided himself on creating this spell. Gromph then produced a black glassy wand from his robes, which he recharged every morning, and shot a fan of black lightning across the night sky at his attackers, wherever a blade had torn a hole in a spell shield, the black lightening lanced through and reduced the mage to a cadaver, chunks of charred flesh flying from the burnt body.  
  
Retcanuth was caught off guard, but soon regained his senses. The explosion had tossed him towards a wall, which proceeded to disintegrate. He was flung to the street outside the building, and witnessed twelve zaeroth riding Caerlids, magical animals resembling a bat in combination with a fish. The shadovar's topaz eyes widened at the sight, but he controlled himself. He withdrew a flake of obsidian from a pouch on his belt, crushing the parchment-thin piece of stone in his hand. Retcanuth flung his hand toward the mages and spoke an ancient Netherese word of power, sending a black beam of shadow to tear apart three of the zaeroth, their spell guards not prepared to stop shadow magic. The enemy mages were reluctant to cast spells at the prince, for they had seen what comes from the mixing of regular Weave magic with that of the Shadow Weave. Retcanuth took a strand of shadow silk and conjured a ball of shadow that engulfed three more mages. This time their retaliation was swift, in hopes that the shadovar could not cast a spell quick enough to impact their own. Their spells blasted the shadowshaper into another building and them to a shadowed corner. The archmage melted into the shadows instantly, the Shadovar's trademark teleportation method.  
  
A tenday later, Gromph was in his office at Sorcere, contemplating his experience. He realized what power his house could gain from conquering the zaeroth and came to a decision, he would gather an army, and by the end of Nightal, (December) he would control Winterhold. 


End file.
